


All Day

by MissingInActionSince06



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: A shit ton of porn, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Bang or Die basically, Bisexual Character, Blackmail, Comfort, Depressive Feelings, Domination, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Lesbian Sex, Masochism, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, OC, Psychological Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Sadistic elements, Sex, Sexual blackmail, Some Femdom, Some Fluff, Stockholm Syndrome, Submissive Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, This actually has a plot going somewhere I swear, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Voyeurism, Yassen is twenty-five, Young Yassen, drugged, emotional issues, graphic depictions of rape, lotsofsex, mental issues, tied, victim shaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25581322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingInActionSince06/pseuds/MissingInActionSince06
Summary: You're the daughter of a famous businessman who's had dealings (or just pissed off the wrong people at the wrong place for the last time) with some shady people. Kidnapped by SCORPIA, you are tortured in an attempt to get your family to pay a ransom to get you back. When a month passes and no ransom is set forth, SCORPIA decides that one way or another, they will make your family pay, even if they have to use you to get them to.Luckily for them, they have a very talented operative, one who is equal parts terrifying and beautiful and whose reputation is among the best in the world. Said operative may be an assassin, but he's gone through seduction training and he knows exactly which buttons to push, both yours and that of your family, to get them to pay up. The question is who'll cave first-your family or your mind?Or for the more direct: Reader is used as sexual blackmail to get family to pay a ransom fee. Yassen Gregorovich is the person who carries out said blackmail.
Relationships: Reader/Original Female Character (s), Yassen Gregorovich/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Cossack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cambriarose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambriarose/gifts), [galimau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galimau/gifts), [pongnosis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pongnosis/gifts), [wewillalwaysenduphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewillalwaysenduphere/gifts), [Sigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigma/gifts), [firestarter (devonair)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devonair/gifts).



> I'm going to be completely honest: it was really late at night and I just wanted to write Yassen Gregorovich smut. So here we have it. The fact that the good cambriarose even agreed to talk with me that late at night is a miracle which I thank the Gods for. Thanks for beta reading and encouraging me and my shitty ideas! 
> 
> First time writing in the present tense, woohoo! Cambriarose encouraged me to give it a try, so kudos to her! :))) If there are inconsistencies, feel free to point them out to me. 
> 
> This fic is incredibly dark. Please proceed with caution. The tags give most of the warnings. As of now, the fic is mature, which may get changed later. More warnings at the end of the chapter, if the tags aren’t warning enough. I don't intend to glamorize abuse of any form. 
> 
> In this weird little universe that pongnosis, Galimau, wewillalwaysenduphere, and others have created where Yassen is trained in seduction. 
> 
> Very well trained, in fact, as our unfortunate reader is about to find out. 

You wake up as you normally do-drowning. 

Sputtering, you try to get up, getaway, do _anything_ to stop the helpless feeling of constriction in your chest until you can’t help it and you take a breath and water starts to fill your lungs. And it doesn’t stop. It just keeps coming in, filling every bit of space you have in your body until there’s no energy left in your body to even fight it anymore. 

And just like always, when the fight leaves you, you’re released. Sputtering, you fall on the floor, coughing up water and mucus, rubbing at your eyes even as the motion stings. A foot connects with your ribs a moment later and you go flying sideways. You don’t even have enough air in your lungs yet to let out a gasp of pain, though a low whimper escapes your mouth anyway. 

“It’s nice of you to wake. I was wondering if we’d finally gone too far.” 

You shudder at that voice. The nameless monster that had been tormenting you for all these days. It’s a woman, or you think it is, but it’s hard to tell. Not much is making sense to you anymore. 

“So...I’m guessing you’d like to hear about any updates, yes?” 

You wonder if you should nod. Punishment was meted out for any minor discretion, from vomiting to bleeding on the floor. Luckily for you, you don’t need to respond this time. 

“Your parents still haven’t paid our ransom. We arranged for a drop yesterday.” It sounds like the woman is smiling. You can hear her footsteps get closer, see the shadow of her body through your barely open eyelids. A strangled groan comes out of your mouth as she grabs your head, yanking it back so that you’re looking up at her. “Tell me-do you think that they listened?” 

You make a pitiful noise in your throat, bracing, no, _anticipating_ the kick that will surely follow. 

But it never comes. The hand releases you and you see her take a step back. 

“Smart girl. The answer is that no, they didn’t respond. Instead, they went to the _authorities_ of all things.” She clicks her tongue. “As you can imagine, we’re very displeased about that. Why on Earth would they do such a _thing,_ when the life of their youngest daughter is in our hands?” 

_They’re going to kill me now,_ you think. You brace yourself, waiting for something, anything, the click of a gun, maybe, or the flash of a knife as it plunges into your chest or head. The smell of blood seems to grow even stronger, and you would gag, if not for the dryness of your throat and the way it hurts to even breathe. 

“Believe it or not, you might still have your uses. Don’t look so shocked,” the woman’s voice sounds downright delighted now. “It’s not a matter of them being stubborn. It’s just a matter of the right incentive.” 

“Incentive?” You don’t mean to say it, the word a bare murmur on your lips, but there’s something that you don’t like about the way she’s saying it. They’d already beaten and tortured you, physically and mentally. How much more were they going to do? 

You don’t realize that you’ve said the last part out loud until she cups your face in her hands, looking down on you in a way that makes you think that she truly doesn’t see you as a human being anymore. An animal maybe. A dog obeying their master, waiting for instructions. But not as a human being. 

She pats your cheeks. “So innocent. You know, there are other ways to blackmail someone besides threatening to cut a few fingers or toes off.” 

Your stomach curls. If raw bleeding stumps were the only reminders of what had once been a set of healthy, pampered and manicured nails, you can’t imagine how bad it’ll be with fingers. 

“Don’t look so frightened.” Again, she laughs. “We won’t be torturing you like this anymore. Do you want to know what we’ll be doing next?” 

“Yes please,” you have no choice but to say meekly. 

“Such manners. Some good came out of this, at least. Your parents should be thanking us.” Another pat on the cheek, though this time it feels more like a caress. You startle at the sheer gentleness of it. “An attractive young girl like you is surely turning heads somewhere. Tell me, have you ever had a boyfriend? Dated anyone? Fallen in love?” 

You shake your head. This part, at least, was something you could say with certainty. You’d grown up in a relatively sheltered family, not uncharacteristic for the kind of background you came from. The daughter of a businessman, one who had shares in not one, not two, but _three_ of the world’s largest oil companies. You’d enjoyed a childhood of comfort and luxury. You’d gone to a private international school with the children of diplomats, presidents, and kings. Every Christmas, you had the option to stay at home or go on an expensive vacation somewhere. Every summer, your entire family went on a cruise, one that lasted for three weeks somewhere sunny, like the Bahamas. 

And through it all, you’d never once had a close companion or someone who you shared words with that weren’t out of mere polite obligation. Sure, there was that ache of loneliness, that feeling that you were missing out on something, but it was easy to ignore when you spent your days with your tutors and studying to keep you company. You’d never thought much of it, till that point, really. You had crushes on celebrities, brief crushes on the boys and sometimes, girls, at charity events and functions that you attended, and you’d even kissed someone once. It was nice. Perfectly polite. Functional in the moment. Later, you’d been embarrassed to learn that the media had taken a photo. It had caused a brief stir in their circle, but nothing had come out of it. 

As for sex...well, there was always the internet for that, wasn’t there? 

“No?” 

“Never. I...kissed someone once, but that was it.” You don’t know why you’re telling her this. Maybe it’s in the hopes that she’ll take mercy on you. If you cooperate, if you did as she asked and didn’t do anything to anger her...maybe you could get out of this unscathed. 

“Never fucked anyone then? Never let someone touch you at all?” She sounds positively intrigued at the prospect. You feel yourself blush. “A blank canvas. Interesting.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur, keeping your eyes cast down submissively. She laughs. 

“I always love a girl with good manners. Well then, I’ll be blunt with you. You don’t seem like a stupid girl, and we’re not going to treat you like that. You do as you’re asked, and we won’t have to hurt your pretty little face. Understood?” 

You nod, quickly. 

“Good. Get up.” 

Shakily, you stand. Your legs are cramped from unuse and you stumble a little. She grabs your arm in a grip hard enough to bruise, dragging you behind her. You limp with each step. Besides removing most of your toenails, they’d also hammered in some nails. Not hard enough to permanently damage the nerve, you’d been told, but enough that it would leave a gruesome reminder, possibly for the rest of your life. 

Your eyes squint against the sudden onslaught of light, and you leave them open just a bit, enough for you to see the woman dragging you along. Her hair is dark blonde and slightly curled and she’s wearing some kind of dark t-shirt, but those are the only features you can make out. Her strength doesn’t need to be evident from muscles; the way she moves you easily, not once hesitating or waiting for you even as you try to keep up, is proof enough that she could easily overpower you if it came down to it. 

She keeps pulling you along as you stumble on stiff feet. The pain has become background noise to you now, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, though sometimes, a rough jerk does make it fresher. 

Soon, the floor beneath changes from dry to damp, and you hear the sound of running water. For a moment, you think that they’re going to drown you again, and the prospect makes something like wild panic rise in your throat. You try to run, yanking your arm away from the woman, but her grip just tightens like the handcuffs that had bound you for the past month or so. 

“Ah, ah, ah, you were doing so good,” she says, her voice in your ear. You cringe in fear, trying to jerk away once more. It’s instinctual, a flight or fight response, something primal in your body screaming that you needed to get away from her right now. “I could always knock you out. Put you back in the cell. We could leave you there for a few days, maybe without the lights on.” 

That makes you stop struggling. If there was anything you hated more than drowning (or any kind of torture in general, really), it was being left alone in the dark. 

“Good girl,” she praises. “Now move along.” 

She gives you a firm shove, and you stumble, nearly falling before your hands find the wall and you right yourself. Pushing your eyes open more, you find that you’re in some type of crude shower block. There’s a metal shower head in one corner, with a knob underneath it. The floor is more of a platform, drainage canals on the side running the length of the entire thing before disappearing into the wall. 

“What are you waiting for?” Her voice snaps you back to your present situation. “It’s not like I haven’t seen everything before.” 

Your cheeks flush scarlet. Nudity had never been something you’d been comfortable with, but knowing you have no choice, you slowly undress, peeling off the gray shirt that’s sticky with blood, sweat, and water. You drop it on the floor beside you before working to remove the shorts on your legs. Then underwear. You shiver as water from your soaked hair runs down your neck. 

Turning the knob, which gives with a squeaky protest, you resist the urge to flinch when ice-cold water hits you square in the face. You search around for soap, but find none. 

“No need for that. You just need to get clean enough for a medical.” 

You nod, teeth chattering as you finish washing. You clean the blood off your neck and face, try not to rub at the sensitive skin that used to have your nails. Eventually, you finish, turning around. 

The woman tosses a towel at you. 

“Wrap it around you. And make sure you don’t drop it.” She grins. “We’re going to medical now.” 

Your body is visibly shaking now from the cold. You wrap the towel, big and the warmest and driest thing you’ve felt in a while, around your body. Your teeth hurt from the coldness, but at least you no longer feel the grime of blood and your own sweat on your body. 

You pad along the long hallways, dimly lit with single lightbulbs at random intervals. Doors line each side of the passage, all of them metal and labelled with letters and numbers. All of them shut. No sound comes from anywhere, besides the woman’s footsteps on the cement and your own shivering, which sounds unusually loud to your own ears. It’s as if a vacuum has sucked everything out of here. A sense of foreboding fills you, but this time, you don’t even try to run. 

Finally, you reach a door. The woman knocks on it twice, and it opens. She gestures for you to go inside, and you do, clutching the towel a little tighter around yourself. Not that you think your modesty will really ever be preserved again. Still, the action makes you feel a little more in control. A little less like screaming and trying to run again.

A man looks up as you enter the room. Tall, maybe in his fifties, with a greying beard and glasses that perch on a hooked nose. You dimly hear the door shut behind you and you whirl around, panicked that the woman had left you ( _she can kill you, she will kill you_ ) but you find her standing there with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised. 

“So nice of you to finally join us, madam. Why don’t you take a seat here?” He gestures at you to sit on an examination table. “And take the towel off while you’re at it, you really don’t need it right now.” 

You glance at the woman, whose lips curl into the barest of a smirk. You drop the towel, trying to ignore the cold grey eyes suddenly scrutinizing your body. You know you look horrible; besides the general physical punishments you’d had every day ( _torture, not punishments, punishments mean you did something bad, this isn’t your fault),_ you’re also underweight and underfed. You wrap your arms around your chest as you take a seat on the table. 

The medical examination continues. You try to tune most of it out. The doctor, whose name, like the woman’s, you never get, pokes and prods you without much sympathy. Occasionally, he makes sounds with his mouth, but it’s hard to tell who he’s directing them towards-you and the woman. You try not to complain or make any noises as he picks at your wounds. 

He bandages off your toes and fingers. He gives you stitches; more of them then you’d have ever liked, but the pain of the needle is still much better than the pain of everything else that had happened this past month. 

“No broken bones,” he says. 

“Well, we can’t break her before she’s served her purpose, can we?” The woman’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Besides, you know Cossack. She’ll be back before the end of the month probably looking worse than she is now.” 

A knot of anxiety twists in your stomach. Cossack? You’d heard the name before somewhere, though the finishing of your sutures, one final pang of pain going up your arm, makes the thought disappear. The name is so familiar, though. Where have you heard it before? 

“She’s finished.” 

“Excellent,” the woman pushes herself off the wall. “The bandages are waterproof?” 

“Yes. She’ll need them changed depending on drainage.” 

“I’ll take care of it.” She grabs a package that had been sitting on the desk. “Clothes. Change into them now.” 

You take the box from her, staring at it for a few moments as you figure how best to open it without the presence of your fingernails. Another look at her shows she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing, and she takes the box back, ripping it open. 

Inside, you find a dark shirt, similar to hers. A silver scorpion is engraved on the top left of the shirt, right over where your heart was. You don’t doubt that’s intentional. A pair of grey pants accompany it, along with a plain black pair of underwear. 

You slip everything on, grateful to be out of the view of prying eyes. 

“Come.” 

You follow the woman back out into the hallway. She turns you around abruptly, and you give a hiss of pain at the sudden movement. She doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care. Her hands move to bring your wrists together as she slips a pair of cuffs on. 

“Come along now.” 

Like a calf following its mother, or a deadman walking to his execution, you follow along. For a brief moment, it reminds you of the awkward moments that happened whenever the grownups wanted to be left alone to talk and the kids were made to find a way to entertain themselves. Trying to seem in place in someone else’s home as you ate their food and made polite small talk. 

It all feels...somehow similar but also...not. 

The sound of a cellphone startles you enough that you falter, and the woman pauses too. 

You don’t dare open your mouth to ask who it is. Despite the fact that the woman was being the nicest she ever had to you (no punching, hitting, slapping, cutting, drowning), you really don’t want to test her patience.

“Cheetah speaking.” 

You blink at the name, wondering if maybe, she’s referring to someone else, because surely, she wouldn’t call herself the name of an animal-? Or was it a codename, like Cossack? 

Cossack. It sounds eerily familiar. You _know_ that you know who this person is, but you can’t quiet place it.

 _“She’s with me right now. Behaving surprisingly well, too.”_ The woman speaks in Arabic, a language that you spoke with enough proficieny to be able to understand her. A laugh, followed by a pause. You can’t see her expressions from where she’s standing behind you, a hand placed on your cuffed wrists. _“We were just in medical. She’ll be there in a bit.”_

A moment later, she’s pushing you forward again. “Walk.” 

You continue to do so. The hallways are seemingly endless, empty, and desolate, like a maze. It occurs to you how easy it would be to kill you now. No one would even notice, and if they did, you doubt that they would care. 

She makes you stop in front of another door, the same as all the others. The serial number, **45-A** , registers in your mind, and you commit it to memory. 

Inside, you blink. The accommodations are the most comfortable thing you’ve seen in a long time. Plush carpeting covers the floor, the color of rusted blood and copper. A bed is pushed up against the wall, the headboard touching the stark white walls. Lamps perch on small wooden tables, casting the room in an almost warm glow. 

It’s just at that moment you notice the man sitting on the edge of the bed. Dressed in a dark shirt and black jeans, his cold blue eyes glance at you once briefly before his attention goes to the woman. 

“This is her.” 

“Yes.” 

He flicks a hand towards you, then says something in a language you don’t understand. The woman responds in the same, and you watch as a scowl forms on her face, marring her sharp features. The man says something back, then gets up, walking towards you. You resist the urge to shrink back when he picks up your hand, still continuing in the same language. The woman snaps something back, clear anger now in her voice, though by the way the man’s face or tone hardly changes, it hardly seems like he cares much. He drops your hand, and you take it back to your side. 

Finally, the woman seems to give up, but not before snapping back one last time. The man ignores her, watching her as she leaves, and then his attention turns on you. 

You don’t know if this is a good or bad thing. 

“How injured are you?” His English is accentless, as blank as a coat of winter snow. 

You blink. That...had not been what you were expecting him to ask. His face is perfectly blank, maybe slightly bored, though it’s hard to tell. He’s about as expressive as the walls in the room are, sans the paintings and occasional bit of drapery. “Not much.” 

“How many stitches?” 

You wince, as you realize that you were never told. “Maybe ten on my leg,” you say, trying to estimate. “Um, five on my arm?” 

“They didn’t tell you.” 

“No.” 

“Sit on the bed.” 

You hesitate before limping over to the bed. Sitting down, you watch as he crosses the room to another door off to the side. You catch a brief glimpse of a shower and bath inside before he comes back with something in his hands. 

A first-aid kit. 

He opens the kit, sitting down on the bed next to you. Opening the kit, you get a glance of bandages, gauze, different tubes of ointment, and plastic-wrapped scalpels. He seems to notice your gaze because he pulls out a bottle of sanitizer and a package wrapped in paper. He lays both on the bed. 

“Did you just go to medical?” 

“Yes.” You watch as he squirts some sanitizer on his hands, rubbing at them before turning his attention towards the package. He opens it, and you see a pair of blue gloves inside. You watch as he pulls the right one on first. The procedure is strange, though judging from the packaging and official way he does it, he might have some kind of medical background. 

That, or he was just a germophobe. 

He gets up, throwing the package in a trashcan by the door. 

“Give me your hand.” 

Having no choice, you obey. He unwraps the bandages, and you wince in pain as your raw fingertips are exposed to the cold air. He examines them carefully as you take a further glance around the room. The air is cold, and you feel some kind of breeze blowing through the room. The metal door, the one you had come through, is painted white on this side, almost invisible, blending in with the walls, save for the doorknob, which is surprisingly gold. 

It looks like a fancy room in some hotel somewhere. Familiar, too, somehow. 

Then it occurs to you where you’ve seen this place before. 

“Wait. This is one of my dad’s hotels.”

The man glances up at you as he dabs ointment onto your fingers with a q-tip. It stings, a little, but at least he’s not trying to make it painful. “The Autumn Palace.” 

You nod, finding the other similarities, which there are plenty of. The paintings, all of autumn and colorful falling leaves. The drapery, golden with bits of shiny red and orange leaves sown in. Glancing down at the bed, you find that the top blanket is dark ruby red with a white border of leaves and a further orange border on that. 

The hotel was one in a series of four, all based on the seasons. The Winter and Spring one was nearly finished, while the Summer and Autumn Palace had yet to be built. Still, you’ve seen the plans and drawings and heard enough from your parents about how _great_ it would be, how exactly everything would look, that it’s hard to not be able to recognize it now that you were actually in one of those rooms. 

Or at least a room that was meant to look like it. 

The man pulls something else out and your attention returns to him as he bandages one of your fingers. You take a closer look at him, wondering if you’ve ever seen him before. Surely not. His hair is pale blond, cut short, and the clothing he’s wearing accentuates his slim body. If you’d seen him underneath normal circumstances, it would have been easy to say that he was some sort of athlete or at least, someone who went to the gym regularly. Of course, the fact that he was here meant that he was not any kind of athlete or not one that you’d want to become acquainted with. 

You wonder why he’s doing this for you. The woman had made it explicitly clear that something horrible was supposed to happened, and considering that this was coming from someone who’d spent a little over a month torturing you, laughing as you screamed in pain, you were likely to take the words with a lot of salt. He finishes one hand, then moves to the other as you sit still. If he feels your eyes on him, he doesn’t comment or doesn’t notice. 

Emboldened by the fact that he’s not actively trying to smash your head open, you gain the courage to ask him a question. 

“Do you know who Cossack is?” 

He looks back up at you, cold eyes flashing with something like amusement. “Yes.” 

You nod again, staring at the bedspread. The fact that he doesn’t elaborate tells you he has no intention of telling you who it is, so you don’t press the matter. 

He finishes with your hands, then glances down at your feet. You flush, then maneuver yourself to raise them up onto the bed. He prods your foot, and you see him frown. 

“You don’t feel any pain from this?” He taps a part of your foot, squeezing. 

“Not really.” It’s true; there’s a general feeling of discomfort, pins, and needles, mainly, but the feeling has been there a while and you’ve mostly been able to ignore it. Your mouth feels dry as he continues to look at your foot, prodding along the entire thing. Was something wrong? Surely, the doctor would have said something-

You give a loud yelp of pain as he prods near the base of one of your toes, jerking your foot out of his grasp. A sharp pain shoots up your foot, and your chest, where the largest of your stitched wounds is.

“Did that hurt?” He asks as if he hadn’t seen your pained reaction. You nod, eyes watering. He holds out his hand again, and reluctantly, you place your foot back. This time, he’s gentler as he presses, and you make a tiny motion when he presses the same spot again. “How long has this been like this?” 

“I’m not sure.” You search your thoughts but can’t remember. 

“Did Cheetah break it?” 

The woman, presumably. You hesitate, wondering if you should say anything but something about his attention makes you feel bolder, and you nod. 

“How?”

“She stepped on my foot.” 

“Any other places?” 

“My fingers, once, but they don’t hurt that much.” 

A brief look of displeasure crosses his face. Anxiously, you wonder if you’ve said something wrong. But he doesn’t seem to be fazed by it as he continues bandaging your toes.

“Did they check your head?” 

“My head-? No.” 

A sigh. You brace yourself, waiting for a blow or slap. But it never comes. 

“Tell me everything they checked.” 

You rattle it off, starting with the examination of your wounds (cleaned and stitched), moving on to your fingers (some kind of finger dexterity test, which you’d seem to pass well enough) to your malnourishment (even you’d been shocked at the number on the scale; had you lost all that in only one month?). 

“What about reflexes?” 

“I don’t think so.” Certainly, they hadn’t used the little rubber hammer that they usually did. 

“Pelvic exam?” 

“Sorry?” 

“A pelvic exam. Did they swab you?” 

Mortification fills you. “Um, no. But I don’t have anything.” 

A raised eyebrow is all you get in response. You blush even more, fighting the urge to cross your legs. “I mean, I’ve never had...someone that I’ve been seeing.” 

“It’s still necessary for good health,” his voice sounds faintly disapproving as he takes your other foot. He’s actually _lecturing_ you on this. You feel even more embarrassed. You wonder if he was simply a doctor with a gym habit. If that were the case, you’d have liked him to examine you instead of the other doctor. “What else?”

“They asked me questions.” 

“Such as?”

It was like he was trying to kill you through your own embarrassment. “Sexual history. Diseases. Allergies.” 

“Did they take blood and urine?” 

God. “Yes. To both.” 

He nods, pulling some tape out of the first-aid kit. Snipping it with scissors, he places your foot in his lap. You flinch at the contact as he takes two of your toes and wraps them. 

“Try to stay off this foot. It’s most likely broken.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you say, awkwardly. 

“I assumed you answered the questions honestly.” 

“Yes.” 

“All of them?” 

What was he implying? “Um, yes.” 

Glancing up, he moves your foot back off his lap again. “Good. Lie back.” 

You obey, moving gingerly to avoid any more pain. Pushing your hair up, you watch as he pulls the first-aid kit with him, moving so that he’s sitting by your side. 

“I’m going to check your abdomen now. Is that okay?” As if you have a choice. There’s not much left to preserve your dignity, but it’s nice to be given the choice of it. You nod anyway. His hands go to the bottom of your shirt before he pauses. “Are you wearing anything underneath-?” 

“No.” 

“Push up the shirt to cover your chest. It’s the best you can do.” 

You do so, watching his reaction as his eyes flick to the bandages on your skin. He peels the bandaids away, examining the stitches. You can barely see what he’s doing, but it doesn’t seem to be causing much pain to you, so you allow yourself to lie there, staring up at the ceiling. 

Finally, the man puts some antibiotic ointment and bandages on. He tugs the shirt back down.

“Were you given any kind of painkillers?” 

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you in any kind of great pain?” 

You shake your head. 

His mouth thins, and once again, he looks less than happy, but then again, he didn’t seem like the type of person who projected his happiness. For all you knew, he felt absolutely thrilled right now and just wasn’t showing it. 

At least he’s not hitting you. 

He gets off the bed and you see him disappear from view. When he appears again, both the gloves and kit are gone. 

“I’ll be back in a bit. The door is locked and there are no windows. I trust you won’t injure yourself in the span of time that I’m gone?” 

“Of course.” You nod your head vigorously. Though the man isn’t explicitly threatening you, there’s a tone in his voice, one of mild danger. You decide you really don’t want to do anything to anger him. 

“Good,” he tilts his head. “I’ll be back.” 

**Published: July 28th, 2020**

**Edited: August 20th, 2020 (changed "Date of Publication")**


	2. Smile For The Camera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I promised myself I would try and update this ASAP but I had some...drama going on in terms of school, work, and family. 
> 
> School is supposed to be starting soon, which I'm not terribly excited about, but eh. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, the warnings for this chapter are at the end of this fic, so please read them before-hand! There's fairly graphic material in here, not as graphic as I generally write, but graphic nonetheless. If you think this could trigger or upset you in any way, please be forewarned.

You’re not sure when you’ve dozed off, though it must have been at least for a good amount of time. When you wake up, a familiar face greets you. 

The woman, Cheetah, stares at you unsmilingly. You can see why she’s named so-her eyes are green with flecks of gold in them. You briefly wonder if they’re contacts before deciding that it’s just safer for you to not ask. 

“So I see that you met Cossack.” 

You sit up a little faster on your elbows.  _ That  _ man was Cossack? Cheetah smiles at your reaction as if it personally pleases her to see you that way. You might feel more embarrassed maybe, or maybe more angry that she’s clearly so amused at your expense, but by this point, you’d learned that it was best to let go of your dignity and try to cling onto any prospective of life and less pain that you could. 

“Fortunately for you, he seems to have taken pity on you.” She says the words with a mild tone though there’s a certain venom to it. “But I felt that it might be important for you to understand your situation here. You are a prisoner. You will not be trying to leave, you won’t try to speak back or attack anyone. You will listen or I will personally see to it that you die a painful and miserable death. Understand?”

You nod your head quickly. 

“Good. Now, don’t interrupt and let me finish. Your parents still haven’t paid what we asked them to. They’ve gone to the authorities. They have refused to cooperate and meet our demands. Clearly, your pain and distress have no effect on them, so it might be helpful for them to see their dear sweet daughter put into compromising and embarrassing positions.” She smiles as if it’s some private joke. “If you struggle, you’ll only get beaten, something which I can personally assure. If you behave, depending on the mood of the person with you on that day, we might go easy on you. Every reaction and move of yours will be recorded and sent to your parents. There will also be photos. There’s nothing you can do about that, so don’t try. Understand?” 

You bob your head up and down, sitting up a little more. Cheetah doesn’t react to this move. Instead, she smiles wider, looking almost feral like.

“Excellent. Cossack has asked for you to have a few days of recovering, so I’ll leave you to it. Smile big and wide; there are cameras in the room. Don’t try and take them down.” 

She pats your leg, then gets up and disappears through the door. You process everything she’s said to you so far. The bit about the camera, you note, but seeing as you can’t do much about them, you don’t dwell. 

You also know the man’s name now. Cossack. You’ve seen him somewhere, you know that with reasonable certainty, though for the life of you, you can’t seem to remember where. He’s certainly not the son of some disgraced politician; that you would remember for sure. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, yawning. He wasn’t hurting you (yet), which really was the only important thing that mattered. 

Your stomach gives a low grumble and you clutch it in pain, remembering that you still haven’t had anything to eat yet. Briefly, you consider asking for some food, but the thought exits your mind quickly. Your captors most likely wouldn’t take too kindly to this. You try to distract yourself by exploring the room, remembering Cossack’s warning to stay off your left foot. Gingerly, you stand, balancing on the headboard. A sharp stab of pain nearly makes you fall to the ground, but you right yourself. Sweat drips down your forehead. 

You stay close to the walls, leaning on them for support if need be, keeping your weight off your injured foot. Though most of the walls are stark white, there’s to the left side of the bed that is covered in silk wallpaper, soft to the touch with intricate designs of faded green vines and autumnal berries and leaves. The paintings are equally beautiful up close. You examine one, noting that it’s actually painted and authentic. Possibly an oil painting mounted on canvas that looks and feels expensive to the touch. You brush your fingers over the brush strokes, noting the way they blend together in intricate yet rough ways. Together, they make up the painting. There’s a certain rough quality that you like about it. It soothes you. 

But then you remember the cameras watching you and you take your hand away quickly. If the paintings are as expensive as they look, you’re sure your captors wouldn’t appreciate you touching them so. 

Still, they’re nice to examine from afar. The draperies look equally expensive, various scenes sewn into them. One has some kind of Autumn Feast scene. Another has a row of pumpkins, lined up on a fence. 

Finally, you get to the door. Your hand closes around the doorknob. You hesitate, briefly considering if you should turn it or not. 

But the cameras. 

Quickly, you move on, finishing your round of the room and going back to the bed. The sheets are cool to the touch. You rub your palm over them. Just a while back, you were sitting on a cold hard cement floor, huddled against the wall for warmth. 

Sighing, you lean back, trying to think of something more cheerful. Nothing comes to mind. You conjugate some French verbs half-heartedly, do some math problems in your head, try to remember something funny from your History Books. 

Your mind drifts back to Cheetah and Cossack. 

Cheetah. The sadist. You don’t know why she likes seeing you in pain, and frankly, you’re not sure if you want to know the answer. It’s not like you’ve done anything to anger her. In the beginning, you did try to negotiate with her. Was that what made her mad? You couldn’t help it. You were sure that you were going to die from the sheer pain of it all. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much all at once. 

After that, you tried to keep her happy. Didn’t try to bargain with her. Did as she asked, even if it was something like “Put the wire in the water and stick your head in,” or “Take this match and place it on your tongue.” It was never enough. She’d find some way to beat you or punish you. Still, you tried. 

Cossack was...better. For now. He hadn’t hit you once and had made no explicit threats. He’d bandaged up your wounds. Did a better job than the doctors. And if Cheetah was to be believed, he was the one who had told them that you needed a few days of rest, something which you welcomed. But else had she said? 

_ “Besides, you know Cossack. She’ll be back before the end of the month probably looking worse than she is now.”  _

You shudder, remembering the dangerous tone in the man’s voice when he’d told you to stay. Cossack may be more patient, but there was an...aura to him. One of deathly stillness and calm. Like the sea before a storm. 

If anything, you should fear him more. Wasn’t that what they always said?  _ “The calm man approaching you to fight is going to hurt you more than the one throwing their weight around.”  _ He may be patient now, because you were listening and answering his questions and you didn’t speak too much, but what if you did something wrong? 

Panic grips your throat. Without Cossack to stop Cheetah, would they do whatever it is that they want to? 

Maybe you should try and stay on his good side. 

You must have fallen asleep again because when you wake up, someone is sitting on the bed next to you. You startle, moving to sit up, but the person presses you back down into the mattress. You’re surprised by the sheer strength behind the move, but then again, it’s not like you’re in tip-top shape yourself. 

“Your stitches.” 

“Sorry,” you stammer. You allow yourself to relax a little more. At least it’s Cossack this time. He’s still dressed in the same outfit as before, so you assume that the day is yet to be over. 

“Are you hungry?” Without waiting for a response, he nods his head in the direction over your shoulder and you turn your head. On the nightstand are a bottle of water and a sandwich on a plate. 

“Thanks.” You sit up more slowly this time, aware that he’s watching your movements. You drink the water first to get rid of the dryness in your throat, and then move onto the sandwich. Though it’s a plain cheese sandwich with little more on it than a smear of mayo, you eat it greedily. Once you’re finished, you look back towards him. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Fine.” 

“I would appreciate your honesty.” Even blue eyes bore into you. “I’m not a man that you can easily lie to, and it would be better for you to tell the truth.” 

You squirm, before remembering your earlier promises. “Not so good,” you admit. “My head hurts. It hurts to move.” 

“Is the pain unbearable?” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure you were never given painkillers?” The way he says it makes it sound like he’s almost skeptical. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I...no, I don’t think so. I’m not lying.” 

“I never said you were.” He continues to stare at you. The intensity of his gaze makes you shift a little. Finally, he looks away towards the bathroom door. “Take a shower. There are clothes for you in the bathroom. Aim to look presentable. I’ll be waiting outside. You have twenty minutes.” 

You head to the bathroom. Inside, a plush shower carpet, ruby red like the bedspread, lies on the floor. The shower area is closed off with a glass wall, one that opens and shuts on a set of gold hinges. The mirror is pristine, large enough to show you the entire upper half of your body if you stood all the way back. Sure enough, you find clothes, a pair of loose-fitting track pants and an equally loose long-sleeved shirt, hanging on a rack opposite the sink. A black sports bra and underwear also accompany it. 

Quickly, you shut the door and undress. Turning on the water, you catch a brief glimpse of all the bandages on your body before nausea rises in your throat, forcing you to turn away. 

You take your time with this shower. It’s more pleasant. There’s some body wash that smells like warm vanilla spices and pumpkins. The shampoo is scented in a similar way, and you find yourself relaxing as you soak underneath the warm water. 

You dry off, pulling the clothes on. They hang off your body, highlighting your thin frame, and you realize with a start that a month ago, these clothes should have been able to fit you perfectly. You search for some kind of comb to run through your scraggly hair but find none. In the end, you settle on using your fingers. 

You do, however, find some toothpaste and a toothbrush. Briefly, you hesitate. Cossack had only told you to take a shower, nothing else, but the toothbrush looks brand new and the grimy feeling of your mouth is too much to ignore. 

Well, what dignity did you have left? Besides, you’d take the punishment if only to get rid of the feeling that something had died in your mouth. 

As soon as you finish, you step outside, leaving the towel, toothbrush, and toothpaste. Cossack is sitting on the bed, typing something on a sleek black phone. 

“You’re ten minutes late.” 

You freeze. 

A heartbeat passes and he tucks the phone away, looking at you. Once again, the weight of his attention hits you. Like Cheetah, there seems to be something about him that makes you want to run, though you can’t. 

“Sit down.” 

Slowly, you take a seat on the bed, noticing for the first time that he has a first-aid kit next to him. This one is bigger than the other, and as he opens it, you notice how well-equipped it is. 

He pulls something out of the bag and turns your head towards him roughly, holding it in place. A moment later, the hand is released to come to your eyelids. He pulls upwards and a bright light shines in your eyes. You resist the urge to jerk away. 

He checks both of your eyes and then puts the flashlight away. Tilting your head up, he leans closer, close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. Your breath hitches. 

“Can you walk?” 

“Yes.” 

He releases you. “Do it.” 

You do, awkwardly limping around the room as best as you can without the use of your injured leg. You do a round like this before sitting back on the bed.

“Did you remove the bandages?” 

“Um, no. Was I supposed to?” 

“No. Take off your shirt and lie back.” 

You avoid his eyes as you do, putting the shirt off to the side. He dresses the wounds on your torso again, putting on a fresh set of bandages. Working mostly in silence, you focus your attention on the pillows lying above you. He’s being remarkably nice about everything. Cold, sure. Blunt, absolutely. But still, no punishments of any sort. It’s off-putting. 

“Sit up.” 

You do, reaching to grab your shirt. You realize too late that you’re now turned, the skin of your back exposed to him. 

“Wait.” 

You stiffen, shirt halfway up your arms by this point. 

“Are those whip scars?” 

“No.” 

“What did I say about lying?” He grabs you in a hard grip, moving you so that you’re lying back down again, this time on your stomach. His movements are fast and efficient, like Cheetah’s, with the same hardness though he seems to control it better. “I will ask you again-are those whip scars?” 

“Yes,” the word comes out as a muffled whisper from where your head is pressed into the mattress. A light sheen of sweat clings to your body like dew. “I...didn’t remember.” 

Cossack doesn’t respond, though you know that he can tell it’s a lie. You flinch when something touches your back, but it’s only an alcoholic swab. It stings against the half-open wounds and half-healed scars, and your fingers tighten their hold on the sheets. Finally done, he finishes with the ointment and then the bandages. 

“Sit up.” 

You do, more stiffly this time. 

“Anything else I should be aware of?” 

You shake your head, mute. 

“Understand this,” a hand forces you to look up at him. “I’ve been remarkably lenient, but if you continue to lie to me, I will be forced to do something regrettable. Understand?” 

You nod, throat dry. No words come out of your mouth. “Something regrettable” doesn’t sound good at all, if the past month is anything to go by. 

The sound of a door being opened diverts your attention. 

Cheetah. She gives a little wave when she sees you looking, and you feel panic setting in. She’s carrying some kind of bag, and on instinct, you shift closer towards Cossack, as if he’s somehow going to be able to stop all of this. 

If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Cheetah, however, smiles wider. 

“I see you’ve already become close.” 

“You have everything?” Cossack’s voice cuts in before she can go further, and for a brief moment, you catch a put-out expression across her face. But she doesn’t say anything further as she shuts the door, simply choosing to nod. Your earlier suspicions were right; Cossack has some amount of influence over her, and she listens to him. If you stayed on his good side, it was possible that she wouldn’t hurt you. Not when he was around. 

“Is she ready?” 

“Nearly. Hands.” 

You hold out your arms to him and watch as he quickly and efficiently removes the dressings, putting on new ones. He’s fascinating to watch, slim fingers moving with practiced efficiency, head bent in concentration. Barely pausing, he moves towards your legs next, unwrapping and putting on new bandages in record time. You see Cheetah observing this as well, though when you look up, all she does is smirk at you. 

You turn back quickly just as he finishes. 

You stand, watching as he exchanges a few words with the woman. Occasionally, her eyes slide back to observe you, though it’s brief and never for long. She seems to be setting something up at the foot of the bed as she speaks. A camera of some kind. 

A sense of foreboding fills you. 

“I never did tell you what we were planning on doing with you, did I?” 

You look at Cheetah, and then at Cossack, who’s putting the first-aid kit on the floor. 

She laughs, and then surprisingly, winks. “I wasn’t joking when I said you were going to be put in some rather  _ compromising positions,  _ let’s just say that.” 

“Sex?” You stand up a little straighter, gaze flickering to Cossack against your will. Maybe you’re imagining it but it looks like he’s grimacing. “Sexual blackmail?” 

“Well, obviously. I thought you would have figured it out by now,” Cheetah rolls her eyes, pulling a chord out of the bag. “Unless you’ve suddenly started to like Cossack and would do it voluntarily.” 

“I, no,” your cheeks burn at the implications. “No. But why sexual blackmail? I thought the torture-” 

“Torture is not incentive enough. A month has passed and no ransom has come forth. Tactics need to be changed.” Cossack’s tone is completely cold and impersonal as if he’s telling a young child why they need to eat their vegetables. You refuse to look at him. “If we continued, it would be ineffective.” 

“But why me, then?” 

“Bad luck,” he shrugs. 

“So you would have taken anyone then?” You can’t help the demanding tone that comes into your voice. “My other sister? My brother?” 

“No,” it’s Cheetah who answers. You watch as she detangles a length of cable. “We needed someone young and well-liked by the media. Your older siblings don’t fit these criteria, obviously.” 

You bristle at the implications of what she’s saying, but don’t deny it. Your sister had caused a scandal when she’d married the son of a politician from a country reputed to have been behind three rigged elections, and your brother was seen coming out of a strip club with four hundred dollars worth of cocaine. In comparison, your first kiss scandal was relatively mild. 

Then something else she said sticks out to you. “Media?” 

“Well, obviously, we need to have some kind of pressure for your parents. We sent your torture pictures to them too. I must say, you are very photogenic.” A hint of a smirk creeps on her face. “Of course, this time will require you to be that way, hence why we had to bandage you up.” 

“That’s enough,” it’s Cossack’s voice, quiet but with an undercurrent of steel. Cheetah shuts up instantly. You were right to assume that he had some kind of authority over her, not that it makes any kind of difference, considering that he’d been in on the plan the entire time. 

You try to ignore the stab of hurt that you feel at the thought. It was like you’d deluded yourself into believing that if you behaved, your captors would somehow go easy on you. Clearly, that wasn’t working out too well. 

You glance at them, seeing both are occupied with some kind of task-Cheetah, setting up the camera, still, and Cossack, texting on his phone. The door is right in front of you. If you were fast enough, you might be able to make it. 

Slowly, you shift yourself to get into a better position. As if sensing your thoughts, Cossack says, still texting away on the phone mildly, “Don’t try it.” 

But the allure of freedom is too great. You don’t like whatever they have planned for you. You’d gone through the torture and pain for a month, you’d shut up and endured it quietly, you couldn’t do the same for this, could you? 

Oh, God. The humiliation of your siblings and parents...seeing you like this. Having sex with a stranger. Having sex with a stranger strewn across the media, too.

_ You’re suddenly six years old again, watching your mother browse through the latest catalogs of up-and-promising models. Slim fingers flipping through glossy pages, occasionally marking something down with a bright purple pen.  _

_ The process has become somewhat similar to you by now even at such a young age. Models were judged on compatibility. The image they presented. Versatility. Could they do other images besides their own? What made them special?  _

_ Your mother comes to a page. Pauses. It’s one model, dressed in four different outfits. You watch as she crosses the page out, a neat x in the top-left hand corner. You don’t understand.; The model was beautiful. Compatible, even, someone you’d seen before. Someone your mother had employed before.  _

_ “Too skimpy,” your mother explains. “We want classy. Not...whatever this is.”  _

_ She waves a hand at the page and it makes sense, all of a sudden. The model is showing too much skin. That was the nice way of saying it, that she wasn’t classy enough, but when it came down to it, it was the skin that did it. A strapless transparent bikini. Underwear so skimpy that it looks like string.  _

You glance down at your outfit right now, feeling your breathing pick up. There would be nothing “classy” about being naked on the front page of nearly every major media channel. 

You want to throw up. Your stomach clenches as sweat gathers on your neck. The thought of your mother and father and siblings receiving photos of you, bare and laid open is enough for you to feel ill but the added twist is that it won’t just be them. The entire world will be looking at those photos. 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see Cheetah look over at you. 

“Sir. A sedative?” 

“No,” Cossack says something in another language to her as she reaches down to take out a large camera, and in response, she shrugs and tosses him a pair of handcuffs. Your heart sinks at the sight of those. You’ve spent enough time cuffed to be okay with never having to relive the experience. 

You feel the first of tears prick at your eyes and wipe them away roughly, hoping neither of them notices. The situation feels hopeless. Why weren’t your parents just paying the damn ransom already? 

Cossack turns back to you again. “Give me your hand.” When you don’t respond, he grabs your left hand roughly and cuffs it, leaving the other end of the cuff dangling open. “Sit up and move back.” 

Having no choice, you reluctantly obey the command, shifting so that you’re pressed back up against the headboard. He’s already made it clear that he’ll do it if need be, but you’d rather not have to be punished again, just when you’re starting to feel a little better. 

Your fingers toy with the cuffs as Cossack moves, brushing up against your body so that he’s now behind you. He grabs your hips and shifts you as if you’re insignificant, a piece of lint in the grand scheme of things, and you don’t try to resist ( _ his fingers dig into your hips like iron bars).  _ Now you’re sitting in between his legs, your back brushing up against his chest. He takes the other end of the cuffs and attaches them to his own wrist. You can feel him breathing on your neck, warm and controlled even as something slips over your eyes. The light in the room is blotted off by dark cloth. Soft and stretchy, Cossack fits it behind your head, and when he lets go, it stays. A blindfold of some kind. Your hands drift up to try and touch it, but a harsh tug on your wrist stops the action. 

Forcing yourself to stay calm, you hear him call something out to Cheetah. He grabs you, shifting you a little so that you’re leaning back more. The move puts some strain on your spine and abs as you struggle to stop yourself from falling back on him. Another sudden pull at your wrist causes you to yelp as you fall against his chest. He’s surprisingly solid and warm, the only source of heat in the room, and he smells like laundry detergent and something else, pleasant and distinctly citrus scented. Goosebumps rise on your arms from the proximity as you try to shift to sit up again. Something keeps your wrist down, however, and when you try to move the other one, a sound of warning comes from the man behind you. You stop. 

You both stay like this for a few moments. The murmur of conversation continues, in the same language that you don’t understand, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All the energy seems to have left your body and your position becomes more comfortable as you grow drowsier. You’d read somewhere that people could behave in erratic ways in the way of danger. Now you had first-hand experience. Handcuffed, about to be sexually exploited, and you could barely bring yourself to do anything about it. Your brain screams at your body to stop this, and it seems that your body might consider doing it, might follow. This shouldn’t be as relaxing as it is, but you can’t help it; something about the even rise and fall of his chest is lulling, as well as his firm hold that doesn’t allow you to move causes your eyes to drift closed behind the blindfold. Your rapidly-beating heart eventually follows and the only thing left of your original panic is the fading screaming in your head. 

A tug at your foot startles you enough that you push back, realizing too late who’s behind you. A hand moves to loop around your neck, tight enough that you stop moving and still, and the arm lets up somewhat, though it remains there like a boa constrictor. Ready to choke you. 

Cheetah must be the one near your feet. You feel her hands roughly shove the pants down your legs, not minding the rather large and obvious wounds there. With a final snap, the pants are completely off. You feel eyes roam your legs, completely hairless since your mother had taken you for your first laser hair removal appointment the day of your seventeenth birthday. She’d insisted ladies don’t have hair anywhere, and this rule had carried over to pretty much anywhere besides your head and eyebrows. 

You feel a vicious stab of hate for her rule. Maybe if she hadn’t insisted you do that, you might not be here. It’s wishful thinking, you know, but still. You suppose her purpose for it was being put to good use at least; the original reason for the treatment was when you’d forgotten to shave your legs for an important gathering and the media had noticed and ran a story on you. 

You remember staring at the front-page coverage, a picture of your legs up close ( _ it’s not like you looked like Chewbacca, even, it was just some light fuzz)  _ as your parents watched in stony disapproval. The only thing you were thinking at the moment was,  _ people are dying in the world and this is the best they can come up with?  _

“Underwear too?” 

“Not yet.”

Relief fills you, though you don’t know why. It wasn’t as if Cossack was suddenly changing his mind about the whole thing or doing it for your benefit. 

A hand encloses around your ankle, tugging it to the side harshly. The movement causes you to shift, fingers tightening and clenching as Cheetah manages to brush up against every painful spot on your foot. Cossack was definitely watching, and by his earlier concerns, he probably wouldn’t let her do anything too painful. If he didn’t deem it serious enough, then it probably wasn’t. 

You make a small noise in your throat that sounds like a plea, though you might as well have just kept your mouth shut for all the good that it did. Something tightens around your foot. You give an experimental pull and find that you can’t move it more than a few inches left and right. 

The same happens with your other foot a moment later. You shift a little, and the arm again tightens before loosening as you still. You find that you can’t speak anymore, or maybe you don’t want to. You’re not stupid or naive by any chance. You’ve been on the internet plenty of times, late at night, to know what’s going on here, but instead of feeling pleasure at the thought of it, the only thing you feel is humiliation and embarrassment and the dull ache of pain from your wounds. 

“Done,” Cheetah announces some time later. You must have zoned out somewhere. The blindfold keeps you from seeing what is going on and the person behind you keeps still. They must have practiced it beforehand to be so rehearsed and clinical about it. “Smile, sweetheart.” 

You don’t, barely managing to not grimace as something clicks. The camera, presumably. Your cheeks are burning by this point; even without having to look, you know your current position has your legs spread slightly with your back up against the chest of a strange man. 

The camera clicks a few more times. Finally, Cossack moves behind you, and Cheetah and he exchange a few words. You catch your name a few times. 

Then the hand on your wrist is released to move down your body, over your stomach. 

No. 

Humiliation hits you so strongly that you let out a wet strangled gasp. 

You twist, trying to lash out, though that doesn’t do much good. The arm, once again, tightens as you try to dislodge it using your other handcuffed wrist, but the motion is stopped by his hand. Eventually, you turn your whole body to the side, curling in on yourself in an attempt to hide. You’re not even sure what you’re doing by this point, and you’re glad that the blindfold is obscuring your eyes because now there are more tears. 

A hand comes to your jaw, trying to force you to move, but you jerk away, curling in even further. 

“Face forward,” you can’t see him, but judging by his deadly calm voice, something bad was going to happen if you didn’t. “Now.” 

You still don’t move. You feel tired, all of a sudden. More tired than you’ve ever felt before. You just want to sleep. 

“Last chance.” 

You don’t move. 

A moment later, excruciating pain shoots up your arm, worse than you’ve ever felt. No. That’s not right. Surely you’ve felt worse. You’d had nails in your foot, your nails pulled out, your face punched to the point that you could barely move your jaw anymore. This can’t be that bad. 

It doesn’t matter. Pain was pain, and who are you to compare the different types? It feels like the time you got your arm stuck in the balcony railings and you’d made the mistake of trying to jerk it out, except this pain is sharper and more intense and concentrated on a single spot on your arm. 

You scream and at that moment, he turns you so that you’re looking forward again. 

The pain abates. Your breathing is harsh and panicked, but it doesn’t seem to matter to them. So long as they got their fucking photos, right? You feel his hand move down your body further, curling just above the space between the muscles of your abdomen and the start of your pubic bone. You push back, the movement of trying to get away inadvertently pushing you farther into his arms. 

He pauses briefly and you hear another click. The room is quiet, and though you strain your ears, you find that there’s not much you can hear or feel other than your heartbeat and the warmth of his body. A cold draft registers on your toes and you shiver, shifting your arms the slightest bit. The pain from earlier is still there, panging, but easy to ignore amidst everything else. 

“Try to relax,” he says, voice near your ear, and you flinch as his hand enters the band of your underwear. You swallow, trying to muster up the courage to say something. But despite the circumstances, you find yourself more attuned to his fingers than to your own need to open your mouth. There’s something about the way your own body feels so cold in comparison, and when his fingers brush up against your clit, you muffle a curse. 

Another click. Fuck, this was humiliating. You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to try and move away again. You’d touched yourself before, late at night, underneath the covers in your room, but that was a private thing for you to do. Sometimes, you used your phone. Other times, you’d allowed your own fantasies to sweep you into another life, another place where you weren’t surrounded 24/7 by the media or your bodyguards. It was easier to enjoy it when it was just that-a fantasy and not something that was actually happening right here, right now. 

You pray that it’s over for now. Maybe that was all they needed for today. Maybe they would-

“Should I start recording, sir?” 

You stiffen. 

“Yes.” 

“Wait,” you say, weakly, trying to sit up some more. The action causes Cossack to brush up against you more firmly and for a moment, a warm tinge of pleasure shoots up your spine. “Wait, please. Don’t.” 

Neither of them bothers responding to you.

A moment of silence passes and then you feel his fingers move again. Your hands tighten into fists, as you realize, that yes, you are getting progressively wet. You don’t know how, and you don’t know why, and you don’t know whether it has to do with his particular set of skills or just the fact that you were fucked up and actually getting off to this. 

Your cheeks flush red as you remember that Cheetah is watching this too. You wonder if her face is blank or in a smirk. She probably would enjoy this, you think, forcing yourself to stop thinking about it as you realize that the thought of her eyes, sadistic and without mercy, watching all this, was turning you on further. 

He’s good at this. Normally, it would take you some time to get in the right kind of mood, but right now, even you can feel the growing arousal, low in your stomach. You try to hold it together. He wouldn’t keep this up forever. He’d stop eventually. You just had to hold out till then. 

But it was hard to even think about self-restraint as you recognize the first signs of an orgasm building up. He seems to know, too. His strokes grow firmer, more insistent, as you clench your teeth. 

You try to think of something else. The shame of your parents watching as their youngest daughter come undone all over the hands of someone from a terrorist organization. The media, and all the boys and girls around the world who’d get a full view into your face as you desperately tried to hold it all together. 

But once again, your own mind surprises you with its depravity. To your horror, you realize that those thoughts are exactly what’s needed to bring you to the edge, and then over. Your hips stutter and you feel the metallic taste of blood in your mouth as you bite your tongue, determined not to make any kind of noise or any kind of reaction. It’s hard. It seems like he has no intention of stopping, considering the fact that his strokes remain firm and sure as ever and he doesn’t even slow down. 

Just when you feel like screaming, begging him to stop or at least slow down because that pressure was building up again, fast and hot and familiar in a way you don’t want to know right now, he removes his hands from your underwear. 

“Done?” 

“Done,” Cheetah confirms, soundly highly amused. 

Cossack moves out from behind you, and through the haze of it all, you let yourself slump against the headboard. You hear a clack and the handcuffs come off from your wrist. A moment later, the blindfold is taken off as well, not that it matters much since your eyelids are shut anyway. 

“Get her legs free,” you hear him say. The sound of running water fills your ears as you feel rough hands pull the bindings around your legs off. 

“Should I wake her up, sir?” Cheetah calls out. You let your eyes open the briefest bit, skin prickling when you realize how close she is. She hadn’t touched you at all so far, but that could change quickly. 

“No.” 

She moves away and you turn a little, throwing your left leg over your right in an attempt to curl in on yourself. Your wounds sting a little, a combination of sweat and overstraining yourself. You ignore the pain and the humiliation that comes with it in favor of rest. The area between your legs is sticky. You want to clean yourself up but even the thought of getting up seems overly difficult. 

“Is that all for today?”

“Yes.” Cossack must have come back. His voice is closer now. “Do not send them until I tell you to.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Dismissed.” 

The sound of a door shutting. The sheets are warm and comfortable, but you feel so cold. 

“You should clean up.” 

“Hmm,” you agree, eyes still shut. 

“Do you feel pain?” 

“No.” 

“Get up.” 

Blearily, you do, sitting up the best you can with your injuries. Cossack’s standing in front of you, arms crossed, eyes appraising you. You try not to meet his gaze, but then your attention drifts to his arms (the ones that felt like chains against your neck), and then his hands (large, some scars) and his fingers (slim, like a musician, pressing up against you). 

Finally, he speaks. 

“I’ll have someone bring you a change of clothing.” 

You nod. You don’t know what to say to that. It sounds suspiciously like a niceness you don’t want to consider for too long. After all, they’d already proved that their so-called brand of “niceness” didn’t extend very far. They’d be back sooner or later with more demands, more pictures, more videos, and more ways to embarrass you. 

You don’t raise your head to look at him when he leaves. When you hear the door shut, you get up slowly, making your way over to the bathroom. 

Once you’re inside, you burst into tears. 

**Published: August 20th, 2020**

**Edited:**

**Author's Note:**

> By no means is this fic a healthy one or an idealization of a healthy relationship. There are graphic depictions of torture, violence, murder, and rape in this. If any of those triggers you, please do not continue reading.
> 
> List of full warnings (may get updated as time goes on): 
> 
> -Violence
> 
> -Rape
> 
> -Murder
> 
> -Torture 
> 
> -Psychological abuse/manipulation/hurt
> 
> -Mental health issues
> 
> -Suicidal tendencies/mentions
> 
> -Suicide 
> 
> -Eating disorders and talks of malnourishment


End file.
